


Catharsis

by Mery_Strider_Egbert



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Accidents, Angst, Depression, F/M, Fluff, High School AU, M/M, Multi, Mute!Gavin, Panic Attacks, Sign Language, Singer!Michael, Stalking, Traumatic Experiences, adding more as i go along, i tried to do fluff its gonna get there eventually, obsessed over the top maniacs, piano prodigy!gavin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:31:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5488844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mery_Strider_Egbert/pseuds/Mery_Strider_Egbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gavin is a prodigy behind a tragedy. He's scared of a lady in a white dress and red lips and long nail-polished hands. There's only a few people that know why. He lost his voice, but at least he can still do the one thing that allows him to express himself the most: play the piano.</p><p>Michael is an angry boy who's lived through hell. He's scared of a tall man, with a gruff beard, disgusting, sweaty hands, and a blank gun. He has no father, but he has his mother, his ukulele, his voice, and his video games.</p><p>They collide in a one-sided fiery explosion that simmers into a warm flame. They help each other, and their friends help them, and soon their lives become entwined with the events of the past and present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is happening! I’m trying to split it even with Michael and Gavin because I mainly started this to be Gavin’s story but Michael shoved his way in there and their lives are becoming entwined. I’ve had this idea brewing for a long time and I finally kicked myself into gear and wrote it! I apologize in advance for the really sporadic updates because writing takes a really long time haha. Tell me please if I should tag anything that I didn’t in the warnings! The time markers are indicators of how much time has passed since a specific event happened to whomever the POV is at that point of the story. They keep track of the days. Also to note, chapter 1 consists of 3 separate parts. Not quite sure if the others will as well. S/O to [justisaisfine](http://justisaisfine.tumblr.com) on tumblr for being an awesome person to bounce ideas off of and reading this beforehand to make sure it was okay ^_^ Hope you guys enjoy <3

**  
** **1\. Gavin**

Gavin opens his eyes, awake, drenched in sweat. Images of a woman, eyeliner running, white, blood-stained dress, gun in hand, pools of blood—he shrieks.

 

But he doesn’t.

 

Nothing comes out of his mouth. No sound, nothing heard but the shuffling of blankets. He grabs at his throat wanting nothing more than to scream out to whoever would be listening. Scream out his anger, his rage, his fears, and his nightmares. He slowly releases his trembling hand over his neck, and realizes he’s shivering. His lips quiver, and he chokes out a sob. He _should_ be over it. He _is_ over it. He knows this. But it all comes back, drowning him in memories, memories that choke him, restrain him. He feels the first tear start to fall, and he reminds himself, sometimes it’s good to just let it out. _Their_ death anniversary is coming soon, after all.

 

So he settles back in his bed, laying on his side and blanket to his chin, and lets his tears fall freely as he relives old memories for the first time in months.

 

 _+One month_ _•_ _one day_ _•_ _twelve hours_

 

_“Gavin, B, can I come in?”_

 

_The lad merely grunted in response. He groaned even more, realizing that no matter what he did, those were the limited sounds he could make. He laid on his bed, with his uninjured forearm covering his face from the sunlight pouring out the window. His dirty blonde hair was flying in all directions, his eyes casting a tired, sorrowful look underneath their redness. His face was streaked, nose runny, cheeks wet. It’d only been a month since it happened, and he was wholed up in his room, freshly exited from the hospital in a heap of bruises and casts._

 

 _The nightmares were constant, the insomnia even more so. Her face, her horrid face, kept popping up in his dreams. The ruined eyeliner. The dark black eyes. The gray sunken cheeks. Her long fingernails clawing around his neck. Screaming, struggling, kicking. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t scream. His mom_ _—_

 

_That’s when he usually woke up, heart throbbing, sweat dripping._

 

_He refused to acknowledge anyone other than Dan or Meg; he mostly just lay in his bed. When he had first come to his new home, to Geoff and Griffon, he was up and trying to make noise. He wanted to focus on speaking. It hurt less than thinking of his… his parents._

 

 _He just wants to_ say _something. Anything._

 

 _At first, he didn’t mind the not being able to speak_ so _much. Figured he just had to live with it. As they days passed, the nights grew restless. His throat was scratchy. His mouth tired. All he could do was breathe. Live with it? But how could he? How could he move on when this happened? Everyone around him was freely speaking, conversing, communicating. Moving their mouths and making sounds, forming words and talking. He opened his mouth and blew air, formed words and spoke into nothing. He laughs but no one pays attention. He screams but no one can hear._

 

 _He’s mute, but he can still_ hear.

 

 _He just_ needs _to say something. Everything._

 

_He tried. He really did._

 

 _Initially, Gavin attempted to whisper to himself, but he heard nothing. Then he’d try to talk, then sing. He heard nothing. Not even the smallest sputter. Frustrated, soon he was ‘screaming’, his throat now shot and his mouth dry. He heard_ nothing. _The only sound he made was him breathing, his groans, and the air coming in and out of his throat. They said it would get better. Maybe he could_ eventually, _one day, make small noises here and there._ Maybe _he could talk again, maybe even_ sing _. It was always ever maybe this, maybe that, maybe_ soon _. Did they bother to tell him then, when he was weak but filled with hope, that the maybe was a 4% chance of hypothetical bullshit because at that moment he heard_ nothing _._

 

_Soon, they said. Not soon enough._

 

_He had slammed his fist on the table again and again, tears running down his face. A numb pain settled in on his now red hand. Goddamnit! He had wanted to yell to the heavens above. And he tried again, only to gain more frustration. After everything they were put through, and this—this bullshit happens. All because of that—_

 

_“Gavin,” the soft voice repeated. After being pulled from his thoughts, the said lad didn’t bother opening his eyes. He turned his face away from the voice, and tried to cover it with his arm. He heard the person come toward his bed until they were right next to him. A notebook was thrust into his chest, the pencil rolling to the side, hitting the edge of the bed. He finally withdrew his arm from his head, facing Dan. With bleary red eyes, he squinted at his best friend. He opened his mouth to say something, but immediately closed it again. Dan continued to speak. “Griffon got you this.”_

 

_Gavin lifted himself from his previous position, taking the notebook and looking at it. He eyed it cautiously with dull eyes._

 

_“Griffon thought… she thought maybe… you’d want it so it could help you talk to us.”_

 

 _Gavin almost scoffed. He gripped the notebook tightly with pointed eyes. He didn’t_ want _to just scribble down his thoughts. He didn’t_ want _to_ have _to write them down. He didn’t_ want _to have to_ rely _on a bloody piece of paper and pen just to have a decent conversation with his friends._

 

 _He_ wanted _to speak. He_ wanted _to talk._ _He_ wanted _his voice back._

 

 _He knew it was a lost cause. And he sure as hell didn’t want this notebook, because it could never give that back to him. It could never replace his voice. Nothing could ever be the same, his parents were dead, his voice was gone,_ nothing _could fix that. His hands and face felt hot with anger, the notebook touched him like it was burning, and he almost threw it across the room._

 

_But then he looked up and suddenly the notebook turned cold in his grip._

 

_He saw Dan’s face._

 

_A face of worry and concern, of anxiety and fear._

 

_And he looked behind him to see Meg, with her tear-stained face, and a sorrowful yet caring expression. Still beneath both of their brown eyes, there was that light of hope outshining the dark anxiety that almost consumed them._

 

_He was an idiot._

 

_Gavin couldn’t bring himself to express his distaste of the notebook. Instead he picked up the pencil. He opened the notebook to a fresh page, and began to write. The first two words of many to come._

 

Thank you.

 

* * *

 

The notebook became an alternative. One that, though not ideal, was okay at the time.  While it could fit the words, Gavin didn’t have the time to write everything down. As a voluble person, the task was tedious, and most times he couldn’t be bothered. Meg, noticing his fuss, decided to do some research, recalling various options the doctors had given Gavin previously.

 

After an excited word with the Ramsey’s, it was settled.

 

 _+Three months_ _•_ _two weeks • two days_ • _ten hours_

 

_Gavin was getting better._

 

_Though he was recuperating slowly and gradually, sometimes agonizingly so, he was still making progress, and that’s what mattered. His night terrors lessened, but he still refused to visit their graves. He wasn’t ready. For now he just focused on the future, still recovering from what happened three months prior. He did manage to get some noise, sounding squeaky and rough, out of his vocal cords, but one trip to the doctor said that, that noise and a little more will be all he’ll get. And God, did it hurt to actually get it out. Worst of all, out of all the things he had encountered, all the things that had happened, all the new things he had to do, all the impediments blocking his path toward his future, it was hard._

 

_It was hard knowing. Knowing he could never utter another word in his accent that used to turn heads and people always joked about. Knowing he could never talk to everyone without a pen and paper. Knowing he could never sing to his family anymore, never sing Meg's little siblings to sleep anymore. Knowing it could never be the same. Knowing it was absolutely hopeless. A 4% chance of horseshit._

 

_Even worse, knowing he can’t ever get his parents back. Knowing they were gone forever and the last time he saw his dad was on the floor in a puddle of blood, his mother fighting trying to save him. Knowing he didn’t say “I love you” and never would be able to again._

 

_But he had Dan, he had Meg and Geoff and Griffon, Uncle Burnie, and lovely Ashley. So he thinks of them when he tells himself, ‘I can get through this,’ after every night waking up to the gunshots and the screeching of tires. He tells himself ‘I can get through this,’ after countless nights he’s cried himself to sleep. ‘I can get through this,’ he tells himself when he wakes up every morning in a still unfamiliar bed, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling._

 

_‘I will get through this.’_

 

* * *

 

 

_It was summer._

 

 _He was ‘talking’ to Meg on his couch while Dan played some Halo. Really, it was just like they were passing note in class. Fun at first, but they weren’t_ in _class. Meg started off replying to him in the same manner, writing it down, but then slowly she started just speaking. It was a lot faster and Gavin preferred it. They tried to make it as normal as possible but it was always slow. He was trying his best, but he just wanted to be able to communicate in the same capacity as his friends. As they went on, jokes were getting harder to tell, not as effective, and Gavin got sluggish at his handwriting. They still got on well, but his smile flattened with every passing minute. His mind wandered off to other things, down beneath the cheery visage he put on for show._

 

_Meg pouted at this. She looked over to Geoff, who had watched the whole thing from the coffee table. They shared a tacit conversation._

 

_“Hey Gav, I’ve been thinking.” Meg started off._

 

 _Eyebrows furrowed, and annoyed that she had ignored his perfectly timed dick joke in favor of changing the topic, Gavin wrote, “_ Well, go on then.”

 

_“Have you ever considered learning sign language?”_

 

_Gavin frowned. He shook his head. He remembered the doctors talking about it, but that was when he was too distraught in his own world and not listening._

 

 _“_ Isn’t that when deaf people move their hands about and somehow the other person understands what they’re saying?” _Gavin wrote. Meg nodded enthusiastically. He scribbled again. “_ Well, I’m not deaf.”

 

_Dan paused his game of Halo at just that moment, having heard what Meg said. He glanced at the notebook on the table._

 

_“Gavin,” Dan turned to him, staring at the words he’d written, “You don’t have to be deaf to learn and use sign language. Why didn’t we think of this before? This would be amazing for you!”_

 

_“Yes! I could learn it with you, we all can! Then you don’t have to keep writing like this in order to talk to us!” Meg exclaimed._

 

_Gavin widened his eyes, still a little skeptical, but grinning. This was the first he’d really thought of using sign language and never considered it an option. He glanced over at Geoff, who watched them from the kitchen, book left open in his hands. Geoff winked with a smirk and went back to his reading._

 

 _“Think about it, Gav,” Meg said, seeing his reluctance. “You can have ongoing conversations quicker with us. You can finally communicate with us. We can have_ super secret _conversations without_ anybody _knowing and seeing it on paper! It’s like speaking a foreign language! It’s going to be fun.”_

 

 _Meg paused for a moment studying Gavin’s face. She grabbed hold of Gavin’s hand and looked at him with sincerity. “Look, Gavin. I know you’re getting annoyed at all this writing. I know you just want to_ speak _again. I know you’re still hurt and sad and mad no matter how much it has faded on you. I can see_ _—_ _we can_ all _see right through that stupid bullshit attitude you try and pin up over your big nose. But Gavin, this is probably the_ closest _we can get to it. The closest we can get to what you want, to maybe make you happy again, to ‘speaking’ again.”_

 

_Dan scooted closer to the two, holding out his hand to reach for Gavin’s free one. “She’s right, B. Consider this, at least.”_

 

_Gavin’s blue eyes wrinkled as he gave the most genuine smile he’d had in a long time. Meg had always been the one to catch on to these things. He sniffled and realized that tears were streaming down his face. He let out a choked sob and reached out to get Meg into a tight hug. Dan joined them, controller abandoned on the couch. Mouthing of thank you’s and whispers of comforts exchanged between the three. After a few moments of the three’s comforting embrace, he pulled away reaching for his notebook._

 

“When can we start?”

 

* * *

 

Eight months. Eight months since Gavin laid hands on his baby grand.

 

He was three when he first touched a piano. He was four when he finally got professional lessons. When he was five, he was a local piano prodigy. More and more symphonies lent their hands out for him to take and he ended up agreeing to some. He loved every bit of playing the instrument and enjoyed even more performing. It was the way he had control over the melodies, the keys—how he could make _his_ music, expressively, languidly, and have everyone _listen_ to his story, and be _heard_.

 

At seven, he started to sing. He absolutely adored it, just as much as playing the piano, if not more. He found great joy singing tunes to his parents, and them singing it back. By this point, the Free family recognized his musical talent but never exploited it unless Gavin really wanted to. He was a free spirit, ambitious, and outspoken. He was quite loud about his love for music. As he grew older, there wouldn’t be a day where he hadn’t played the piano or sung loudly in the living room while playing some video games.

 

At nine he had moved to Austin with his parents for reasons they didn’t disclose to Gavin. They couldn’t bring his baby grand overseas, but eventually got a new one in their house in Austin. It was obvious in the way Gavin kept nervously tapping his fingers and humming rhythms of songs better played on keys then with his voice, that he didn’t take a separation with the piano well.

 

It was only one week, but a week all too much. In that moment, that was the longest he’d ever gone without playing the piano since he’d begun.

 

At ten, he started playing at more recitals, and even began to give mini-performances for friends and family.

 

At eleven, he was recruited by a local town symphony in Austin. He was going to go on tour with them and have a chance to perform a few songs he composed himself. His hands grew cramped each day as a new sheet of music was produced from his scrapings of graphite, but his smile never faltered from his face.

 

At twelve, tragedy struck, the day before his late night hours producing countless of tunes would pay off.

 

At twelve, his bones were aching, his head pounded, his world faded to black. Pools of blood surrounded three bodies.

 

At twelve, he’s sitting stagnant in front of the piano. His neck in a brace, his leg in a cast, his arms bruised, his face solemn. The keys stared as blankly at him as he did them. He could hear Geoff and Griffon shoo the media and reporters away from their house, those who hoped to see him playing again or at least  _talk_ about the incident.

 

At twelve, it had been five months since he’d last touched the black and white keys. Keys that were so familiar and held a certain warmth, now turned cold and farther than Gavin had ever let them go. 

 

At twelve, it had been seven months, three weeks, two days, and two hours, since he left his piano seat algid, and recovered in a building with white walls and crestfallen faces. His fingers tapped impatiently, but he couldn't bring himself to actually play.

 

 _+Eight months_ _•_ _one week • five days_ • _fourteen hours_

 

_It was just a couple days before his birthday, when he finally sat down in front of piano and did something other than just scrutinize it. His hands finally ghosted over the fingerboard, still rusty with neglect from playing, but flexible from his ever-increasing knowledge of sign-language._

 

_He reminisced of simpler times. The days where he would play with joyful hands and an open heart. His mind flashed to when he was playing his newly composed piece for his parents, the one that would debut at his first international symphony concert fully composed of his songs. His joy he felt then, sadly unattainable._

 

_He looked at himself now. He didn’t have any word to say about himself but, pathetic. His hands were rigid across the fingerboard. He sighed._

 

_He was going to do this. He was going to play.  He was going to get move past this._

 

_Just let it out._

 

_So he tried._

 

_He started with a simple note, middle C. He let it ring in the air for seconds before his other hand followed with another note. He played with the keys trying to find the right ones. It was there, that comfort of playing the piano he always had. It was coming back, slowly, but surely, and it felt… cathartic. Oh, there it was! He could hear it now, the song he was going to play. Beautiful and daunting. He recognized it—a piece he’d written for his parents months ago. This time it was different, still delicate but more daunting. It reverberated, echoing each note, in his head until he pressed his fingers down again replaying that last chord. The rest came gliding out of his fingertips. He closed his eyes and let it go. The dark melody taken from his heart unto the piano. All his pent up feelings came pouring out through haunting overtones, arpeggios, and trills. He opened his eyes at a two measure silence and his vision was blurred. As he slammed his fingers back on to the keys, he blinked the first tears and realized he was crying._

 

_Everything he hadn’t said, everything he’d bottled up, everything unmentioned in these past eight months came crashing down on him. Grief. So much grief. His parents death, his loss of voice, his guilt, his nightmares, his regret, everything burst out into the limelight. The explosion sent shockwaves through his notes and through his fingers. Tears were streaming down his face and dripping onto the piano. The song was so deafening, so powerful that he gained an audience quietly standing behind him. They eyed him with curiosity, amazement, and concern. Soon enough, their eyes were filled with tears as well._

 

 _With all his crescendos and thundering notes, the song came to a sudden, sharp pause._ _  
_

 

_Gavin breathed in harshly, and the notes started once again, but this time softly, whispering into his ears, repeating the chords and the melody from the beginning._

 

_His fingers pressed down slowly once more, dragging each and every note, ending the phrase, ending the song._

 

_He froze, only for a moment, his hands still. He was staring at the keys again, through his fingers, blankly. This time, however, a heavy encumbrance was lifted from his shoulders._

 

 _His started to shudder and shivers crept down his spine. He smiled. He was sobbing again. This time his lips were upturned, his mouth was open, and he was laughing. Laughing an inaudible, mute laugh, as tattooed arms wrapped around him_ _—_ _arms of Geoff and Griffon._

 

_They were crying and laughing with him._

 

_As the tears and the chuckles subsided, Gavin nearly collapsed on top of Geoff. He was drained. He wanted to head to bed, but he was perfectly content in letting Geoff carry him if he passed out right then and there. He wanted to do one thing first._

 

_He sat himself up, and untangled their arms. He lifted his hands to his eyes, wiping them of tears. He stared down at his hands for a little bit trying to figure out how to say it. It was still a bit new to him. Geoff and Griffon waited patiently._

 

_When he felt confident, he started signing out the words. Griffon started to speak out his signs._

 

_“You… parents… grave… want to go,” Griffon said. “You want to go visit your parents’ grave?”_

 

_Gavin nodded. Griffon and Geoff both looked at each other and exchanged unspoken words. They were both grinning. Gavin hadn’t expressed anything about visiting his parents grave. He missed the funeral because he was in the hospital. After the first few weeks at home, he just stopped talking about them altogether. Today was the first day he opened up. Finally._

 

_“Of course, Gav.” Geoff responded hugging the Brit to his chest, wiping his tears with his thumb. “First thing tomorrow,” he whispers in his ear._

 

_They sat there for what felt like ages. Geoff’s hands making comforting circles on Gavin’s back, Gavin resting his face into the crook of Griffon’s neck, and all of their faces contorted into a melancholic, yet joyous expression._

 

_Relief._

 

 _It spread across Gavin’s face as he lay in bed that night. His body sagged with exhaustion, but tonight_ _—_ _tonight he could finally rest. It was weeks ago, months ago, when he figured it out.  The only obstacle in his way to full acceptance was himself. He was holding himself back. Finally, finally, he had let it out the best way he knew how to: through his fingertips; through the melody; his grief into music, his ignorance into awareness, his hidden screams into harsh crescendos._

 

_It wasn’t over, far from it. But he broke the barrier; it was a start. And it felt so good to get it out._

 

_He let tears fall once more._

 

 _This time_ _—_ _with solace._

 

**2\. Michael**

 

“ _Ssshut the fuck up. I saw her car. I watched her walk in here. Where iss she?”_

 

Michael could still hear _his_ vile voice.

 

_“Just get the hell away from us, you bastard! I already called the cops!”_

 

He could _still_ hear his mother’s shaky yell as she did her best to be strong.

 

He could still hear the voices. The drunken fights. The late night arguments. The break-ins. The sirens. They all jumbled into one piercing scream.

 

Then silence.

 

_“P-put that gun down. I-I’m sorry-I won’t-”_

 

He could still see the gun. This time it was pointed at him. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t scream, he couldn’t even look away. He just stared at it, right there, inches away from his face now. Ready to shoot.

 

And it did.

 

**BANG**

 

* * *

 

It was too quiet. Always too quiet.

 

It was just half past ten o’clock and the whole neighborhood decided to simultaneously fall asleep.

 

Michael supposes it was something he would get used to.

 

Back in Jersey, his city would be awake, thriving. Teenagers would sneak out and have a few smokes, maybe a few drinks. Some would be sneaking out for the first time, others would be doing this the sixth time that week. Adults in their mid-twenties would be dancing, gliding, feeling _—_ some getting high off of the darkness _—_ until morning. While some people slept, _most_ people thrived.

 

In Austin, all was still. It wasn’t bad or anything, it was actually quite nice. But it was unsettling. Michael is a city boy, and while he had heard a few things about downtown Austin, Texas, they lived on the outskirts, in a neighborhood secluded in tranquility and darkness, minus the street lights. He's used to cars honking, loud swearing, drunken neighbors, and a few police sirens once in awhile.

 

It was background noise, thought-cluttering, familiar background noise, and he needed that right now. He didn’t want to think, he never liked to. But he always _has_ to think, his contemplations could never escape him for long. His thoughts creep up on him slowly, wanting to break his little peace of mind.

 

He never really had peace of mind anyway.

 

People here weren’t thriving; they were _sleeping._ Instead of cars and swearing and sirens, he listens to the creaking of his house, the crickets’ songs, and the deafening silence.

 

The internet still hadn’t been set up. His mother said they would come this Thursday. He didn’t want to wait that long, but so be it. He was never a patient person(quite the opposite, he was known as Mr. Rage Quit for a reason), but he wouldn’t let his frustrations fall on his mother. Not with what happened recently and them moving across states to get away from it. From him.

 

He was bored to put it mildly. No internet, no phone charger, no ukulele(he could’ve strum mindlessly and sing songs if only it didn’t get lost in the move), no new friends, no _old_ friends, not a lot of service, and no mom. She went out to talk to her new boss and was working a night shift, leaving him alone to think. He still doesn’t like to think.

 

Thinking leads to memories. Memories lead to crying. Crying leads to Michael holed up in his room tired of everything and everyone, tears welling up in his eyes, his head resting on his knees, door locked. His mother would knock; he wouldn’t answer. He’d pretend not to hear her sigh in the next room and he’d pretend not to hear her sniffles as she grabbed a few tissues and he’d pretend that he wasn’t like this, that he could just stop being sad, that he could just stop _thinking_.

 

He was just so _tired._

 

_Fuck. You’d think once we moved I could get past all this emo bullshit._

 

He does end up thinking because what else is there to do when it’s a quarter ‘til eleven and you can’t fall asleep because you don’t feel… safe? He never feels safe. So he looks around first before his mind wanders too far. But he keeps thinking someone is outside or around the corner or in the closet. He doesn’t close his eyes, because every time he does he sees _him_. He doesn’t go to sleep because he _knows_ he’s going to have nightmares. He ends up curling up in a ball and staring at the wall in his room.

 

Before his thoughts get even further, he decides some fresh air might do him nice. He goes outside to sit on his front porch, watching the fireflies float around him, little stars in the dark neighborhood. Now that was something familiar to him, but he called them lightning bugs before he moved here. They formed miniature galaxies in the dark. Michael smiles thinking of the little suns the fireflies made as they whizzed past him.

 

And with him outside, he could keep watch for anyone coming.

 

Michael kept glancing down the unfamiliar streets with a worried visage; he shiveres at the night chill. Nights like these reminded him of when he’d sneak out of his old apartment and go out to try and steal some cash from closed down shops around the block. He could try and pickpocket if he wanted to. He wasn’t proud of those moments but his mother was broke, and they had loans piling up and bills upon bills to pay. They needed all the money they could get. Michael was young, naive and didn’t think about the consequences. In the end, draped with shame and a heavy scolding, the biggest punishment he’d gotten was a night in jail and a warning.

 

They did let him keep a ukulele he picked up along the way, however. He learned the chords and he realized how much he actually liked doing it. A week later, he started singing songs on the street, taking requests, and making a name for himself, resorting to that until he could get an actual job. He smiled at the memory. He felt like playing his ukulele, his hands strumming the air subconsciously. It always made things better, just playing songs and singing. God, he wished they hadn’t lost it.

 

He could say that was the one thing he missed from that place.

 

He took a sip of the beer he got from the fridge enjoying the taste in his mouth and the light buzz it left him. He would be legal, if he were in the United Kingdom(he’s staying in his house, away from any trouble anyway). Michael was 17, going on 18 next year. His senior year has already started, but high school seemed far away. _He_ hadn’t started. He would begin in two days, Monday, but the rest of Austin already had. They started a few weeks later in Jersey(where he had thought he’d spend his senior year of high school), so he had to deal with the late start now. He didn’t really mind.

 

He was away from New Jersey, his home, but now it didn’t really feel like home. He didn’t know where home was. Was it here? Was it no where? He doesn’t know. All he _does_ know is that he’s supposed to be safe here, but they’re 1,711.8 miles away _—_ he’s checked _—_ from his old town, and he just can’t shake the feeling that he’s always there, still _watching._

 

* * *

 

_“Mom, you-you have to- we have to move.”_

 

_Michael’s mom stiffened. She locked the door behind her as she replied, “What? Why?”_

 

_“You know why.”_

 

 _“_ _I_ _don’t.”_

 

_They moved to the kitchen table, his mother taking a seat and Michael standing on the opposite side._

 

_Michael looked around the house warily. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he could have sworn he was his mother’s ex-boyfriend in the neighborhood (and following her to work, him to school, her to the supermarket)._

 

_It freaked him the fuck out._

 

 _Wherever they went, he followed. He was obsessed with her and Michael really wanted_ another _restraining order, and to get the hell out of there. He was sure that the man knew about their new location by now._

 

_Michael’s mom still looked confused. He sighed and wove a hand through his hair. “Don’t we have family in Texas? Aunt Claire? Uncle Seymour? Your friend Burnie? Why don’t we move there?”_

 

_“Yes, but why would we have to Michael…? Did you steal again? Are we resorting back to this because I know I’ve told you that financially we are fine right now. If you were only singing then that’s fine but...”_

 

_Michael didn’t answer, right away._

 

_“Michael is something wrong?” She looked at him with worry lacing every wrinkle on her delicate face. She was trying not to think the worst. “We don’t need to go the the therapist again, do we? Did you…?” She tugged at his jacket sleeve and that’s when Michael had enough._

 

 _“No—no, mom, it’s not. Of course not!_ I’m _fine. It’s…”_

 

 _He didn’t want to tell her. They’d moved apartments_ three _times already, they had two restraining orders against the man, he didn’t want her to worry. But this was serious, he_ had _to._

 

_Michael sighed and sat down. The chair creaked as he rocked his body back and put his face in his hands. “Mom, it’s… It’s him.”_

 

_The silent moments that followed frightened Michael. The panicked look on his mother’s face terrified him. She just stared at him, in shock, until she started to breathe in sharp, shallow bursts, quickening with each breath. Michael rushed to her side. Oh this was bad. This had never happened before. She never panicked before._

 

_She was trembling in his arms, shaking her head with disbelief. She held his hand as he whispered to her. “Mom, breathe with me, come on. In… and out… and in… and out… in… and out… Okay, let’s-let’s count to ten okay. Slowly. Alright? 1...2...3…”_

 

 _Michael rubbed circles on her back and helped her calm down. On the inside his mind was running wild. This was the first time his mom had ever broken down in front of him, he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing. He did whatever he could remember from when she was trying to calm_ him _down. “He’s not here now. It’s safe right now. But we have to move soon. Not now, but soon. Okay? He’s not here. Call Aunt Claire. Or Uncle Seymour. It’s safe. I promise.”_

 

 _His mother’s breathing slowed. The panic was passing. She was nodding at him, forcing a smile. “Michael, huh, wow you are good at this, aren’t you? Thank you. I’m… just so sorry. I had to put you through this… this mess. I could never find the right person… not after your dad… I’m a mess… I know I’m supposed to be stronger,_ I am _stronger, you know that. This week has just been too much on your old woman. I’m sorry you ever had to see me like this...”_

 

 _Michael pulled her into a tight hug. Relief filled him as his own racing heart slowed. He breathed in and hollowly laughed into her hair. “You don’t have to apologize. I’m not the one having a panic attack right now. I suppose I’m only good because of the all the times_ you’ve _helped_ me _. Don’t blame yourself. I should be sorry. I can’t do anything to protect you from that guy. Nothing. And I would really like to fucking punch him in the face if he ever comes near us again.” His mother laughed._

 

_“Get in line, Michael. I got dibs,” she said with a wink. And there, his mother was back in all her headstrong nature and glory. “Love you.”_

 

_“I love you, too, Mom.”_

 

_They sat in silence, holding each other a bit longer. When Michael sees a still apprehensive expression on his mother’s face, he starts to hum softly. A little lullaby from a song his mother used to sing to him. “Short steps, deep breath. Everything is alright." His mother smiles and her tense body relaxes._

 

_And Michael thinks, it’s safe, he’s safe—they’re safe._

 

_Of course, the silence never lasts._

 

_“Okay, I think I’m going to give that call to Au—”_

 

**_BANG_ **

 

“Heyyy, Suuusan! Little Michael! I’m hooome!” A raspy, slurred voice boomed from the doorway.

 

_“Oh, motherfucking shit.” Michael whispered. He glanced at his mother._

 

_She was shaking her rapidly head, whispering, “No,” repeatedly to herself until Michael shook her out of it._

 

_“Mom, I need you to stay calm okay?”_

 

_His mom breathed heavily. She looked him in the eyes. “Okay.”_

 

**_BANG_ **

 

“Let me in! I know you’re in there! Michael open the door!”

 

_“Shit,” Michael breathed out. Before he knew it, his mother was out of his grip and rummaging into the closet. He followed as the banging increased. He could hear the wood breaking and the hinges creaking._

 

_She threw him a bat and held out a key._

 

_“Now’s your chance to punch him in the face, right?” His mother joked briefly. “The key is to the drawer in the master bedroom, got it? There’s a gun in the drawer. I’m calling 911 right now okay? This is only if he makes it into the hous—”_

 

**_BANG_ **

 

“Suuuussaaan! Miiikey! I’m inside now, you fuckersss! Where are youu guys? I’m coming for you!”

 

_“Mom call 911 now. Now!” Michael whispered harshly as he grabbed his phone and put it in her hand. He led her up the stairs as quietly as he could, his heart pounding in his chest. He heard his mother dial the number. The phone was ringing. He opened the bathroom door and shoved his mother inside._

 

_“Michael what are you doing? Michael! No! You can’t take him alone!”_

 

_“I’m buying you time!”_

 

_“I’m not letting you go out there alone.”_

 

_“Just talk to the cops, Mom.”_

 

_“Michael.” They looked at each other, each with ferocious brown eyes. The Jones’ were stubborn folk._

 

 _“_ Are you upstairs, Suussaan?”

 

_Michael slammed the door in her face and rushed out to find the man. He cursed inwardly. He left the bat in the bathroom._

 

 _He could see him, wandering drunkenly through_ his _room. He kept his anger down. He took this time to go to the master bedroom, the key jingling in his pocket._

 

* * *

 

_“I’m right here, Frank.”_

 

_The man whipped around the hallway and saw Michael on the other end._

 

_“Heyyy kid. Where’s your mother? I need her to do something for me.” He walked towards him._

 

_“She’s not here.” Michael tightened his grip on the gun behind him._

 

_“ _Ssshut the fuck up. I saw her car. I watched her walk in here. Where iss she?”_ Frank took another step forward and reached out for Michael’s collar. _

 

_“Don’t touch me!” Michael screamed. He was backed into a wall. Too late. Frank’s greasy hands gripped his neck._

 

_“Where is she!”  Michael’s hands clawed around his neck as he gasped for air, dropping the gun with a loud thump._

 

_He was seeing stars, black spots. His vision blurred. He couldn’t breathe. His throat burned. Huh, when did he stop kicking at him? All he felt was pain, pain, pain. Like a spike was shoving its way up into his throat. Then it suddenly faded. He felt tired. His eyelids drooped._

 

_“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY SON!”_

 

**_CRACK_ **

 

_Michael gasped, the air returning to his lungs. He wheezed roughly as his vision cleared. He heard sirens coming from outside._

 

_Frank was on the ground, rubbing his head. His mother was by Michael’s side in seconds, discarding the broken bat and attending to her son. “Michael, oh my god. Michael, are you okay?” Michael swallowed painfully._

 

_A low chuckle sounded from the man behind them, propping himself up with his elbows. Slurred words echoed. “There you are, Sussaan.”_

 

_“Just get the hell away from us, you bastard! I already called the cops!” The sirens were closer._

 

_Frank ignored her. “Hey, you dropped something, Mikeyy.” Michael’s eyes widened as he saw Frank grab the gun. The gun was pointed straight at his mother._

 

_“P-put that gun down, Frank. I-I’m sorry-I won’t-”_

 

**_Click._ **

 

_“No!” Michael screamed. He dove in front of his mother as soon as he heard the click. He expected blood. Or pain. Or something. But he stared at himself and then at his mother. She stared back at him, eyes wide. Nothing._

 

**_Click. Click. Click._ **

 

_The safety was still on. Michael grabbed his mother’s hand and they stumbled down the stairs._

 

_“What the fuck is thiss shit?” They heard Frank yell. The only comfort was that they knew he was too drunk to get up._

 

_Michael walked through the broken door and was immediately greeted by the loud sounds of the ambulance and a team of cops._

 

_It was over. It was actually over._

 

We really should move to Texas _, he thought with a laugh, shaking his head._

 

_The paramedics were around them in seconds. His memory was hazy._

 

 _He just remembers his mother not leaving his side, and_ _sitting in an ambulance. He held his mother tightly as she sobbed. He didn’t realize until then that he was crying, too._

 

**3\. Collision**

 

_Michael +Three weeks • five days • fourteen hours_

 

_Gavin + Five years • eleven months • three weeks • nine hours_

 

Michael never really stopped thinking about it. He could never shake the feeling even after he saw the court ruling. Frank was in prison. He shouldn’t be able to get to them here.

 

The thing about traumatic experiences is that they never really go away. You may move on, but the paranoia never ceases. The feeling of being watched always lingers. Trust is hard. Oh, and the nightmares don’t stop after the first few days either.

 

So when Michael sees someone following him on his fifth day at school, he immediately thinks the worse.

 

He walks down the chalk-covered sidewalks to his house, past the greenery, and the fauna. He picks a few flowers from his walk through the park, a present to his mom. His new school is only a 10 minute walk from his house.

 

By the time he’s past the park, there’s usually no one he recognizes from school around him and he continues on his way.

 

That’s when he notices someone behind him, following the same way. His heart speeds up. He looks behind him briefly, and his mind flashes to when he saw Frank follow him to the grocery store. His hands are sweaty. He stops. He turns around to face the guy, who hasn’t stopped looking at the ground. He doesn’t even know he’s talking until he hears his own voice.

 

“Hey! You. Are you following me?”

 

The guy jumps, startled. He just furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and stared with his green-blue eyes.

 

A couple seconds pass and at this point they’re both staring. The green-eyed lad hadn’t replied, his mouth open in surprise, as if trying to figure out what to say.

 

“Are you?”

 

Quickly the guy shakes his head.

 

“Oh… sorry.”

 

Michael turns back around and keeps walking, a little red from mistaking the guy to be a stalker. He was only halfway there, he figured the green-eyed teen would turn on a street somewhere before he reached home.

 

Minutes passes, but Michael still hears the footsteps behind him. He abruptly stops, thoughts getting the best of him.

 

“Okay fucker. This isn’t funny. I know you said you weren’t following me, but it sure as hell looks like you are. So can you please stop?”

 

He doesn’t even look back to see if the lad acknowledged him.

 

He waits a few minutes and assumes he gets the hint so he keeps walking. No matter how green his eyes were, or how big his nose was, and how ridiculous his pink shorts were, he wasn’t going to let another Frank happen. Some irrational part of his tired brain kept conjuring ideas.

 

What if Frank sent this guy to Austin? What if he talked to someone? What if he knows?

 

Another couple of minutes pass and he’s in clear view of his house. A twig snaps behind him. He breaks.

 

He turns around quickly, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He grabbed the lad by the collar of his shirt against the fence.

 

“I told you to stop okay!” Michael’s pent up energy comes rushing out of him and he keeps talking and talking and talking until he’s spitting out words. His face is flushed, and he’s panting. “What are you? Some fucking stalker? Do you work for Frank? That son of a bitch? Huh? Huh!”

 

The lad wouldn’t answer. Instead he gets this confused look on his face, and he’s just now realizing that this was actually happening.

 

“Answer me!” Michael yells, tightening his grip on his shirt.

 

This time, the lad opens his mouth as if to say something. Nothing comes out.

 

_What the hell?_

 

“Cat got your tongue? Why won’t,” Michael pushes him harder against the fence, “you fucking talk?”

 

And that’s when Michael sees _him_ break. His eyes grew wide, he’s trying to scream but it seems impossible. He’s thumping on the fence crazily. And Michael thinks he triggered something, and the world around him starts to slip away into irrationality.

 

Some rational part of Michael’s adrenaline-addled brain is screaming at him, laughing. He probably looks like the bad guy here right? The bully? The lad looked harmless. How would he even be a stalker, if anything? Michael’s too paranoid in his blind rage to think straight. His mind just goes back to Frank, and his hands around his neck, and the gun in his hands and he can’t think.

 

“Come on! _Speak!_ ”

 

He can’t think.

 

“Gavin!” Someone roared. Michael barely heard them. He _can’t_ think.“Get the fuck away from him!”

 

Michael felt hands swing him sideways. He tumbled to the ground, scraping his hands and knees. He stares blankly at the scene in front of him. Breathing hard and fast. He doesn’t know what’s going on. Terror fills him for a moment.

 

_Oh fuck. What… what did I just do?_

 

He sees the lad(Gavin?) with a red-haired girl around his age, her arms wrapped around him, comforting him. There’s another boy the same age as well, Michael seems to remember he was the one who pushed him off of Gavin. If looks could kill he would’ve been killed thirty times with a thousand arrows by now. Taller than the three was a heavily tattooed woman.

  
Her attention was on Michael. She seemed like she didn’t know how to place him. Whether to hate him or to like him. _As if the world doesn’t already hate me._ Then something visibly clicked in her head. She walked towards him and outstretched her hand. Michael only stared.

 

“Griffon what are you doing?” Huh, that was oddly British. But also very angry.

 

The lady, Griffon, ignored the British boy and knelt down next to Michael.

 

“I-I’m so _—_ ” Michael started, but before he could finish Griffon cut him off.

 

“Michael right? From next door? I’m Griffon, your neighbor. I’ve met your mother, Susan,” She says with a small smile. Her voice was soothing and light and sweet. It contrasted from her pierced septum and the colorful tattoos gracing her arms. “She told me the basics. Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain it to them, okay?”

 

Michael is too dumbfounded to speak. He merely nodded. After a minute to process her words, he reaches for her arm just as she moves to stand. His voice was rough and low. He whispers, “N-not everything, please. Don’t tell them everything.”

 

“Of course,” Griffon smiles reassuringly.

 

She stands up and started to walk towards Gavin, who was already walking away. He kept looking at Michael and they avert their eyes every time they meet.

 

Because every time Michael’s eyes meet with Gavin’s, all he could see was a face with a look of utmost confusion and hurt. And something in there that made Michael want to keep looking. _Understanding. Forgiveness_.

 

_How was that possible with what he just did?_

 

“Wait!” They were already inside their house. “Wait… I didn't even say...” Michael was still on the ground. Afraid to get up and face his actions. He can’t believe that he just did that. His hands were trembling. He keeps shaking his head. He punches the ground. His knuckles sore, bleeding. _Shit, shit, shit_. _I’m such an idiot._

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

* * *

 

It was minutes before Michael stopped hitting the ground, before he could stop calling himself a stupid idiot, so that he could actually make a move to stand.

 

When he finally did, he looked around to gather his things. His face fell more when he saw the crushed flowers he was going to give his mother. Moving on, he spotted something unfamiliar a few feet away from him. It was a notebook, one that wasn’t his. His stuff was all in his backpack. He walked over to take a closer look.

  
It was green, ratty, and worn. It was spiral bound, nothing fancy, but what caught his attention were the words on the front. In big green letters spelled, “ _Gavin Free_.” In smaller handwriting below it read, “ _i_ _s a stupid idiot_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah. When I started writing this, I did not imagine this is how they would first meet. I'm sorry. And um I’m kind of dumping a bunch of prior events to the main story in the beginning, lots of italics, but bear with me. There will be more later, I thought it’d be interesting to do it like this. All will be revealed about exactly what happened, later. You’ll figure out when Michael does.The song he sings is Everything's Alright by Laura Shigihara.  
> Fun Fact: I created this story to produce mavin fluff. And oh, we’ll get there. There’s just a bit of a rocky path until we do. I also scrapped entire sections already written because I decided this would need a darker tone. Find me on tumblr at [gavsmogar](http://gavsmogar.tumblr.com)~ And if you have any questions about the time or anything (without spoilers) just ask me there or comment here! Constructive criticism is always welcome~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! Not sure if I'm entirely pleased by how this came out, but it's written! I changed a few things in the last chapter, a few minor details such as the song Michael sings. It's going to match with the one he does in this one! And a few other tense changes. Hope you enjoy <3

_Gavin +Five years • six months • three weeks • ??_

 

Gavin had seen Dan angry before, but never had he seen him this infuriated.

 

“The nerve of that git.The absolute prick.” Dan paces around the room with clenched fists and a deep scowl. “Thinks he could just move here and push you against the wall and hurt you? Who the hell does he think he is?”

 

 _“Dan… Dan!”_ Gavin tries to sign at him from his position on the couch, but he wouldn’t even _look_ in his direction. He frowns and flails his arms wildly, but to no avail.

 

Next to Gavin, Meg tries to help by grabbing at his arm when he came pacing in her direction, “Dan… Dan, stop—”

 

“I-I’m going to find the prick and punch him in the face. Slam him against the fence like he did you!” He brushes off Meg’s hand easily, barely noticing it was even there. His whole face was red. He starts striding for the door. “He’s our neighbor innit he? What’s stopping me from going there now and—?”

 

“Dan.” Geoff appears in front of him, arms crossed. Steely eyes clash with angered ones. Within a few seconds, the look from Geoff makes Dan immediately back away with guilt. He glances at Gavin who is already giving him a look. He stands back with hunched shoulders and hands in his pockets, his eyes flickering to the floor.

 

“But-but he-he hurt Gav,” Dan tries to reason.

 

“Listen, I want to punch the kid square in the face, too but—” Geoff stops abruptly with the loud cough from Griffon. While his anger still boiled, he set his weight on his other foot and folded his arms with a sigh, succumbing to his wife’s wishes and letting his aggression down. He still couldn’t understand _why_ Griffon wasn’t as mad as he was even with what they know about their neighbors, but he’s learned to trust her reasoning. She was always better at this parenting thing then he was.

 

“Dan, we can’t just go over to his house and beat him up. He… does have his reasons. Don’t stoop down to that level.” Geoff says firmly. He adds under his breath, “No matter how much we want to.

 

“If the kid _does_ hurt Gavin again, you have my permission to punch him.” Geoff says a few moments later. “Just give me dibs for the second round.”

 

“Geoff.” Griffon gives him a cold stare. Geoff holds up his hands in surrender and shrugged apologetically. Griffon merely rolls her eyes and moves to stand next to him and talk to Dan.

 

Gavin watches from the couch as the two reason with Dan. His frown etches deeper on his face as it goes on. Sometimes he feels like he should be the one telling Dan not to go. He should be the one yelling at him and scolding him and—Gavin shakes his head. He wasn’t able to stop him and _wouldn’t_ be able to. Maybe he could’ve gotten in his way, but he was too exhausted to even think about it. He couldn’t shout or even get his attention. They were usually good about that—looking at Gavin to see if he had anything to say. But Gavin wouldn’t be able to stop Dan in his rage and it’s just so _frustrating_.

 

Is it selfish that he just wants to scream, _“Look at me!”_ because looking at him was the only way that they could really _listen_ to him?

 

He puts his face in his hands, elbows on knees, slouched over and exhausted of the day's events. He hasn’t been this upset about his lost voice for months. He’s usually better than that, used to the not being able to speak with most people.

 

But Dan is not _most people_ , and maybe Gavin’s just a little bit hurt because even then, Dan had only looked at him once before pacing the house in his fury.

 

And it makes him feel helpless again.

 

Suddenly he’s back with that brown haired guy pushing him against the fence, screaming at him to say something. And he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He just had his mouth open, trying to speak, to explain, to ask him to _stop_ , even though he knew no sound would come out. His hands wanted to move in familiar signs, but they lay petrified, not responding to the various stages of panic, until the brunet’s hands came dangerously close to his neck and suddenly his hands were alive again.

 

It was all too familiar. All too close.

 

Gavin remembered years ago, they’d developed a system. He was clumsy—everyone knew this well before the incident. Of course they had to come up with something after Gavin almost broke his leg when falling down the stairs. He ended up with a sprained ankle, and he couldn’t call for any help.

 

_“One thump with your hand is ‘I’m fine.’ Two thumps is ‘Help me. I’m hurt.’ Three or more thumps is ‘I need help right now! I’m getting shot or some other rubbish!’” Dan established while handing Meg an icepack to put on Gavin’s ankle._

 

So his hands, in fists, now alive, were banging on the fence because he couldn’t do anything else—he couldn’t scream; he couldn’t yell; he couldn’t do anything besides bang on the stupid fence. His one desperate call for Geoff, Griffon, Meg, Dan—for _anyone’s_ help.

 

He remembered then that the lad wasn’t even reacting. His eyes were distant, disconnected from his moving mouth.

 

When he was up against the fence, all he could look at was the guy’s face in front his as he was pushed back. Flushed, sweaty, eyes dilated, ragged breaths. Gavin wasn’t sure if the brunet was aware his hands were trembling, or that he was shouting so loud or that his, eyes were tearing up behind his glasses.

 

But he had seen those eyes before. Those type of eyes that looked like they were afraid of someone. That were afraid of something happening again. That were terrified of something _worse_ happening. That were just scared and anxious and paranoid. The eyes that saw something close to what he had seen. He saw it in his father’s blue eyes. He saw it in his own green eyes. He saw it in that brunet’s brown eyes.   

 

There was also something about him that Gavin couldn’t quite place, but he knew that he couldn’t bring himself to hate the guy even in the situation they were in and the memories it brought back. He knew someone who did the same thing.

 

And when something clicked in his mind after Meg helped him up and calmed him down, after Dan stormed into the house, after Griffon tried to help the other lad up, he knew there was a reason behind his actions.

 

So when their eyes met again, Gavin knew he looked hurt. Because at the time he was wondering _why me_? He was just so confused and he was thinking why this had to happen to him and why he had to lose his voice and why he always feels so helpless? But there wasn’t hate. There was a hint of understanding, a hint of forgiveness. Because he recognized the curly haired, freckled brunet. And he was wondering a different sort of why. Why did he react that way? Why was he like this? What made him like this? And he knew he could’ve cared less, forgotten everything about him after that day. He could’ve hated his living soul after that interaction.

 

But nothing could make him forget those eyes. Who was this Frank he kept shouting about? Was it him that did this? While there was still a small pit of distrust given the situation they were in, there was also the long bout of uncontrollable curiosity. He wanted to know why.

 

Even if he grew to ultimately hate him, he wanted to know the person behind those broken, brown eyes.  

 

He knows now that the lad was his neighbor. ( _If only I could’ve told him that then this wouldn’t have happened but-_ ) It was just a couple of nights ago, after Geoff, Griffon, Dan and he came back from a trip over the weekend. The house next door was suddenly lit and the empty parking lot was now filled with two cars.

 

That’s what clicked in his mind when he was walking back to his house and he stared back at the curly haired teen. The one who looked so apologetic. Sad. Confused.

 

On a sleepless, chilly night, Gavin had seen him.

 

_Gavin +Five years • six months • two weeks • five days • six hours_

 

_He couldn’t sleep._

 

_He woke up in the middle of the night, drenched and trembling under his blanket, somehow cold and sweaty at the same time. After the first nightmare the week before, he went on a downward spiral face-first into memories._

 

_Everytime he closed his eyes, all Gavin could see was the blonde hair, the blood, the hands and long nails digging into his neck. He’d grasp his neck feeling the ghost touch that felt too real. After twenty minutes of shuffling in the sheets, he threw his covers off and swung his legs to the side of the bed. Maybe a bit of fresh air would help._

 

_When he stepped out, the cold hit him first and he shivered. He had started to lay on the bench on their porch, his head already on the decorative pillow, when the second thing hit him. He wasn’t alone. He freezes._

 

_In clear view from the bench, Gavin saw a person around his age in the dim lighting of their new neighbor’s house. He could vaguely see the golden curls and glasses of the figure hunched over, sitting next to a table and a bat._

 

_His hands were on his face, covering his eyes, his right leg shaking impatiently. He was lost in his own little world, unknowing of Gavin’s presence. Gavin rested his head back calmly. At least the stranger was his neighbor and didn’t know where he was._

 

 _That’s when Gavin hears the sniffling. And then there’s a little whine. It’s coming from next door. His neighbor-_ he’s crying.

 

 _Gavin had the urge to stand up and wrap his arms around the new neighbor, but he dismissed it immediately._ That would be right weird wouldn’t it? _He stayed still, and he watched, helplessly. He doesn’t want to move in fear of being noticed, but he wants to do something to help or at least say something._ But of course he can’t say anything _. He’s flustered and bewildered. Why would his neighbor be crying?_

 

 _Not that he didn’t have his fair share of experiences of crying outside on his front porch._ That’s what I was going to do outside anyway, right? Think about life and cry? _Gavin thought bitterly._

 

_It’s only a minute of after the crying seemingly stopped, when Gavin decided he should head back inside before he fell asleep. Just as he’s about to move, he hears the humming. He looked back at the figure of the teen and instead of his hands on his face they’re now wiping his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. He exhaled loudly, looking as if he was trying to calm down._

 

_It starts as a whisper, as if he’s trying to sing to himself first, but it’s quiet enough that Gavin could hear. It’s low and hesitant, his voice still muffled from the crying, but still soothing to his ears._

 

 _“_ _Short steps, deep breath_  
_Everything is alright._  
_Chin up, I can’t_ _  
_ Step into the spotlight.”

 

 _That surprised him. He’d never heard the song before but this voice… He didn’t know why, but it was just… calming. That thought surprised him even more. Only a few voices had the ability to calm him down. Only a few things could make him feel like_ this _. Relaxed and calm, despite the nightmares he’d awoken from only half an hour ago. This voice just made him want to lay back onto the bench, to close his eyes and forget. He could listen to him sing all day, especially this lullaby-like song. He kind of wanted to. Already exhausted, his eyes began to droop as he listened to the soothing tones of his neighbor._

 

_He opened his eyes to see Griffon’s blue eyes staring at him from above._

 

_“What are you doing out here, Gavin?” She simultaneously signed and said at the same time._

 

_Before Gavin responded, he sat up to look next door. The curly hair and glasses were nowhere to be seen. The bat was gone. The chair pushed in. No trace of him. Gavin furrowed his eyebrows._

 

 _He started to wonder if the singing teen was actually there and had left already, or if he was just dreaming._ It felt like a dream.

 

_He started to convince himself, so. Probably just a dream. But he was still astonished because for the first time in a week, his sleep was  free of nightmares, and instead he was graced by the voice of an angel._

 

 

* * *

 

 

But it wasn’t a dream.

 

“Gav.”

 

He’s brought back into the world with Meg’s hand on his shoulder and he jumps a little bit in the process.

 

“You’ve been hunched over for fifteen minutes. Dan and Geoff have gone upstairs already,” Meg says while rubbing Gavin’s back comfortingly, and he remembers why he shouldn’t feel so helpless all the time. The reasoning consisted of a certain Meg Turney among others.

 

 _“Where’s Griffon?”_   Gavin signs.

 

“She’s making your favourite tea,” Meg replies as she scoots over to make room for Gavin to lay down. By now they both knew the procedure.  

 

Gavin signs a quick thanks before he rubs his temples trying to heed his impending headache from today’s events and thoughts. He lays down, head on Meg’s lap and feet resting on the arm of the couch.

 

“How are you feeling, bud?” Meg asks. She plays with Gavin’s hair absentmindedly, as she waits for his response. Gavin just sticks his tongue out and makes a face. Meg giggles. “Bad then.”

 

They sit in comfortable silence for a few moments. That was the nice thing about their friendship that Gavin loved. They could sit in silence for hours or talk about everything and nothing. It was never awkward. Meg knew when to stop pressing, and Gavin was always thankful for her presence. While Dan was his best friend—and he considered Meg to be his, too—Meg was more of his rock.

 

With all the long talks and long years of knowing each other, came with knowing when something was wrong. Gavin had closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them he could see Meg’s troubled face as she stares across the room at the blank TV. He bumps her and raises his eyebrows once he gets her attention in an unspoken, _“What’s wrong?”_

 

Meg sighs and lets her hands fall from Gavin’s hair. “I just… I keep thinking about earlier, with that boy—Griffon said his name was Michael—and how he did that to you. The one time we leave you on a ten minute walk because I… I’m…” Meg grips the couch cushions tightly and averts her eyes to anywhere but Gavin.

 

 _“Oh Turney,”_ Gavin signs with a sigh. He sits up and turns to face her. _“It’s not your fault you couldn’t drive me home today.”_

 

“But Gav.” Her hands moved with her lips. “Something could’ve happened to you. A-and _if_ something _did_ happen to you… I—”

 

Gavin covers her mouth and stares straight into her brown eyes. He releases his hand and signs, _“Turney. It will never be your fault.”_ _It’s probably mine, in any case._

 

Gavin pauses to wait for her reaction. Meg is still pouting. He reaches out to pinch her cheeks and makes a face, causing her to laugh. _“Stop frowning,”_ he signs. She rolls her eyes, but smiles for him anyway.

 

“I’m still sorry,” Meg says as she relaxes back into the couch.

 

 _“But_ —”

 

“I know, I know, it’s not my fault,” Meg waves him off. She makes a small heart with her hands. “Love you.”

 

 _“Love you, too, Turney,”_ Gavin signs back, copying the same heart with a grin. A moment later he adds, _“He_ — _Michael_ — _would have never done something like that to me, anyway. And if he ever did, he wouldn’t have meant it.”_

 

Meg looks at Gavin quizzically. “How would you know? He looked pretty aggressive to me. Willing to slam you against the fence-aggressive.”

 

Gavin sighs. He doesn’t really want to get into the whole explanation now. He wants to just lay back down and relax because he is absolutely exhausted. _“I just do.”_

 

Before Meg could continue the conversation further, he rests his head on her lap again and closes his eyes, signalling the end of it.

 

“I’m asking you again later,” Meg states. Gavin just waves her off like she did him, eyes still closed. It might’ve been Meg’s presence, or his thoughts of that night with Michael and his singing, or the fact that he was mentally and physically drained, that enabled him to close his eyes and not see the woman that haunted his every waking thought.

 

For once, he could rest in peace. 

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure you two aren’t dating?” Griffon joked when she walked in to see Gavin’s head still on Meg’s lap, and Meg attempting, but failing, to make small braids in Gavin’s hair.

 

Meg held back a chuckle. It was an ongoing joke between everyone in the Ramsey household. She put her pointer finger up to her lips. “Shh, he’s asleep.”

 

Griffon set the cups of tea on the coffee table and sat across from Meg, watching as she looked at Gavin fondly.

 

“You’re good for him,” Griffon commented in a whisper. They’d had this topic come up a million times before, but it wasn’t so bad to bring it back up occasionally.

 

“As his best friend,” Meg said, ruffling his hair one more time before looking at Griffon. “We’re almost dating as it is, but I could never like him like that. We tried to go out once, remember?”

 

Griffon couldn’t help but laugh at the memory. “He was so nervous that day. He would come out with an outfit, ask for our opinions, and even if we all liked it, he’d come back with a new set of clothes a couple minutes later.”

 

Meg laughed at the memory. “He told me about that. What he wore was cute, though. He shouldn’t have worried so much.”

 

“You guys still haven’t told us exactly what happened.”

 

“The date went great.” Meg shrugged. Griffon raised an eyebrow, confused. “We just realized we didn’t like each other like that. And he was so nervous, he didn’t want to ruin what we already had, y’know?”

 

“So dating, but platonically then?” Griffon concluded.

 

“Yes, exactly,” Meg said with a grin. “But don’t tell Dan. He’ll freak out at the word ‘dating’ like he did when we went out that first time. What a love-struck puppy.”

 

“He’s good at hiding it, you have to admit that,” Griffon replied.

 

“Gavin’s oblivious, that helps.” Meg continued. She looked at Gavin again with a fond smile. He looked peaceful in this state. “He means a lot to me. When I saw Michael have him up against the fence…”

 

“I know,” Griffon said. She paused again, watching her.

 

“You’re his rock, you know?”

 

Meg smiled wider at that and ruffled his hair more. “I know.”

 

A few minutes passed with idle chat about anything and everything. Griffon was always a joy to talk to. She moved to stand, and Meg successfully maneuvered off of the couch without Gavin waking up. “Are you staying the night, Meg?”

 

“Can’t, babysitting.” She explained.

 

“Stop by tomorrow morning. I was meaning to talk about Michael with all of you, but this bum decided to sleep. And those two decided to sulk in their rooms.”

 

“I’ll try to be here before we go have that picnic,” Meg said as she picked up her backpack and keys. “But, somehow I think Gavin knows what you’re going to say already.”

 

“I just hope they can start on a better foot next time.”

 

Gavin would wake up, in the early hours of the morning, finding himself alone in the darkness, his tea cold, and wrapped in a blanket that smelled like chainsaw dust and strawberries.

 

* * *

 

_Michael +Three weeks • five days • nineteen hours_

 

The more Michael looks at the notebook, the more he wants to open it.

 

He felt a moral sense of obligation enough to _not_ open it, but a few hours later after homework and moping and generally regretting every decision he’s ever made, he figured he’s a piece of shit anyway so, why not?

 

It sat plainly on his desk. He’d wanted to return it earlier, being neighbors and all, but he couldn’t quite explain what he did. He wasn’t just about to knock on the door and say, _“Hi. I’m Michael, we’re neighbors and I just slammed you against the wall earlier. Here’s your notebook you dropped, by the way! Bye!”_

 

He was sure someone in that house wanted to kill him, _hopefully not Gavin._  

 

He huffs, maybe Gavin would actually want to kill me for opening the notebook, _if he didn’t already want to_. Why would he have a notebook anyway? Was it just schoolwork? Was it a diary? He looks at the notebook again, already in his hands this time.

 

Fuck it.

 

Michael opens it to a random page. It wasn’t what he expected. Instead of notes for a class, scribbles of conversations adorned the pages. Some written diagonally, some upside down, some in weird circles in all kinds of handwriting and colored pens. There was a laughable doodle of a person with a large nose, and a badly drawn Mario—and Michael indeed laughs. He wonders why someone would keep something like this. To pass in class maybe?

 

Some were connected and clear conversations. Others were just weird insults to each other. Some appeared to be snippets of an ongoing conversation, both spoken and written. There were some words in there that Michael didn’t even know. The guy must be making them up.

 

_“Don’t be a minge Dan.”_

 

_“Stop being an ass Gavin”_

 

_“hEy I’m Gavin Free and I’m a pansy.”_

 

_“Sod off!”_

 

 _Minge? Sod?_ What was this guy? British?

 

Michael did recall a British voice when he…

 

Just like that, Michael closes the notebook. Guilt washes over him again in sharp pangs. Now more than ever, since he just got a glimpse of the person Gavin was. _Seemingly a British idiot with a large nose._ But he was _nice_. And admittedly funny. He was a real person that Michael just harassed because of his own paranoid mind.  

 

He curses at himself. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ He should’ve _known_ he wasn’t a stalker. Should’ve known because how unlikely was it? Frank was in prison. He was a drunk. He didn’t really _know_ anybody besides him and his mom. He’s in _prison_.

 

He hears the door click open downstairs. Eyeing the bat near his door, he drops the notebook on his bed and walks slowly down the steps, bat in hand.

 

“Mom?” He calls out.

 

“Yes, Michael? I’m in the kitchen.”

 

Michael sighs, visibly relieved, and lowers the bat. He walks to the kitchen and greets his mother in a warm hug.

 

“Jesus, Michael. The bat again?” His mother grabs it out of his hands and Michael instinctively reaches for it. His mom just pulls it away farther. He’s getting too attached—it’s becoming his crutch and his mom knows it.  “Were you going to whack your poor mother in the back of the head?”

 

His mom gives him a look after dropping her joking smile. She’s going through the same thing but it’s concerning to see her son so worrisome like this. She was coping, and he was not, despite his protests that he was apparently _fine_. The bags under Michael’s eyes didn’t help his case. She tried to make him go to therapy with her, but he refused again.

 

_(“They don’t help mom. They won’t. I’ve been there before! I don’t care if the one in Austin is different.”)_

 

Michael doesn’t reply and instead helps with unpacking the groceries scattered around the counter top. “You went to the grocery store? Were you a-”

 

“I was with your aunt,” his mother responds quickly.

 

“Did you lock the door?”

 

“All three. And I double checked.”

 

“Did you check the door in the back, too?”

 

“Yes. Three times.”

 

“No one followed you?”

 

“No, and I’m sure of it.”

 

“Did you-”

 

“Yes, Michael. Yes. Don’t worry.”

 

“I always worry.”

 

“I know,” she replies. She pinches his cheeks, making Michael scrunch his face. “You're the best son.”

 

Ever since they moved, Michael insisted she shouldn’t be alone. She said that it was ridiculous, but she agreed to have either him or his aunt with her at all times besides when she was working. She didn’t like admitting that Michael was right, but she did need the extra support in not being alone.

 

Michael was alone most hours of the day because of his mother’s job, not helping his paranoia, but he didn’t let that show(or at least he think he doesn’t). The last few hours he was more preoccupied with a certain notebook and guilt to think about intruders. He was getting better, piece by piece.

 

His mother _could_ pretend to not notice her son walking down the halls to the porch outside when he thought she was asleep (she was just as awake as he was). She _could_ pretend she hasn’t seen him curled up in a ball in his room when he wasn’t looking. She _could_ pretend she hadn’t heard him crying on the porch one night and hadn’t heard him give a muffled scream when he noticed the sleeping figure next door that he failed to notice.

 

She _could_ pretend that he didn’t come back inside, look at her in shock and in tears, and proceed to hug her as tightly as he could. She could pretend to forget, like he _asked_ her to. She didn’t.

 

She had just as many sleepless nights and nightmares and fears, but watching this happen hurt her even more. At least she would try to get help, and therapy did help her in many ways. And maybe she was just better at hiding it. But Michael refused to get help so she decided to be strong for him, deal with it _together_ . She didn’t know _how_. But she was a determined lady.

 

“Hey, I was thinking. Since I’m free this weekend, want to head down to Lady Bird Lake?” She asks after she puts away the last of the groceries.

 

“Uh, that lake that’s really just a river?” Michael questions. He leans back on the counter, allowing himself to relax. He looks around for the bat his mother hid.

 

“Bingo. That’s the one. I was thinking we could do a little picnic or walk around… It’d be nice to get out of this house and into some fresh air. Sight-see a little bit, since we just moved here a week ago.”

 

Michael turns his head to look at his mother’s pleading eyes. He was tired and after today, he just wants sleep the whole weekend—or maybe for eternity. But it’s hard to say no to that look. Instead he says, “Okay.”

 

“Perfect!” She exclaims and gives him another hug.

 

When they break away, Michael keeps her at arm’s length. “Uh, by the way, do you know the neighbors? Someone named Griffon?”

 

“Yes! I talked to her just a couple of hours ago at lunch with her husband, Geoff. Why?” His mother asks. “Can you get those two mugs on the top shelf?”

 

“I just… ran into them on the way home.” Michael says. He grabs the two cups and puts them on the counter in front of her.

 

“They’re good friends of Burnie and Ashley. Really good people. Really understanding. Funny, too. I think you’ll like them. Geoff, especially.”

 

“Oh.” Michael says quietly and looks down to twiddle his thumbs. His mother doesn’t hear it, nor see it, busy preparing two cups of hot chocolate. _Well, I doubt they_ will _like me because of what happened today._

 

“They also have one son, adopted. And another one staying with them for some reason, they didn’t say. Dan and Gavin, I think? Both from England, they said. I hope you guys will get along well. They go to the same school. It’d be nice to have friends. Oh, but uh, you may want to learn sign language before we officially meet them.” She glances from the water boiler to see Michael’s surprised look.

 

“Sign language?” _B-but they_ did _hear him, right? They weren’t deaf? But Gavin didn’t reply…_ Did _Gavin hear him? Oh God._ A series of thoughts unravelled in quick succession, causing even more shame and confusion to course through him.

 

“Yes… Griffon didn’t go into the details, but there was an accident five years ago. Gavin—I believe it was him—lost his voice,” his mother explains. “They use sign language to communicate with each other, besides a notebook Griffon mentioned he keeps.”

 

“Is he deaf then?” Michael asks. In his head he keeps thinking, _why, why, why did I do that to him earlier? Why couldn’t I just think straight?_

 

“No. He lost his voice,” his mother replies. She hears a click from the water boiler and takes two mugs with her to pour the hot chocolate.

 

“So he’s… mute?” And suddenly, everything pieces together in Michael’s brain. The notebook, the weird words, why he wasn’t talking, why he _couldn’t_ talk. _I’m so stupid._ But it didn’t explain one thing. Why in the world did he not look like he hated Michael? Like he actually understood why Michael did what he did?

 

“Yes.” She puts the hot chocolate in front of him. “Why are you making that face?”

 

 _No. I can’t tell her. She has enough on her plate as it is without my shit._ “I’m just wondering why you’re making hot chocolate when it’s 75 degrees outside and hot as hell.”

 

“Tradition,” she answers simply, while taking a sip of the hot chocolate. Michael should know this. She’s not buying it. “What is it? Did something happen?”

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“Michael. Do I have to force you to get therapy now? I will do it—”

 

“ _It’s nothing_ , mom.” Michael looks at her with eyes that scream, _drop it._

 

“You’re sure?” She doesn’t _want_ to drop it, but she concedes.

 

“Yes.” To make a point, he grabs his bat and walks towards the stairs without looking at her. “I’m going back to my room.”

 

Hours later, his hot chocolate sits cold next to his mother’s half-full one.

 

* * *

 

_Gavin +Five years • six months • three weeks • one day • nine hours_

 

 _“His mother’s boyfriend almost shot them with a gun?”"_ Gavin asks, confused.

 

 _“Abusive_ boyfriend,” Meg adds with disgust, her hands and face showing it as she signs her words.

 

They’re sitting around the breakfast table, all five of them: Geoff, Griffon, Gavin, Dan, and Meg. Each with various cups of tea or coffee. Dishes with varying leftovers of food from breakfast cluttered the table. Griffon decided to explain to the three of them about Michael, hoping they would get back on the right foot. From what Susan had told her, he was just a troubled kid that needed some kind friends.

 

 _“How horrible,”_ Gavin signs. _Maybe that’s why he was crying. Nightmares. Was Frank the boyfriend, then? He must’ve been on edge yesterday and when I didn’t reply..._

 

“Bullshit.” Dan said, who hadn’t spoken up until now. “Why was he so paranoid and decided that _Gavin_ had anything to do with that?”

 

Since Michael had asked, and for her own personal reasons, Griffon decided to keep the part about the man being a stalker and breaking into their house to herself. She didn’t know the full details herself anyway. Instead she simply said, that he pulled a gun on them and that he was abusive.

 

“Shouldn’t he be afraid of people with guns and people dating his mother instead of _Gavin?_ ” Dan continues. “Why would he be afraid of people following him after _that?_ ”

 

 _“Dan, if someone was about to shoot_ you _, and that happened to be your mum’s abusive chav, then wouldn’t you be on edge as well? Especially when you ask this random bloke to stop following you and he doesn’t say anything back?”_ Gavin signs in a flurry, mad at Dan for being so adamant on hating Michael.

 

“Dan, look, we talked about this yesterday. You—I mean we—don’t know the full story,” Geoff reasons. “He has a reason, and well, it’s something.” He trails off, cursing himself because—

 

“What? Do you know more of what happened Geoff?” Meg asks. Geoff is silent, guiltily looking at his coffee.

 

“You do! Why won’t you tell us then?” Dan asks.

 

“Michael asked me himself, to not tell you everything, okay? We know a little bit more, but not much. And it’s _none_ of our business. It’s his to tell, _if_ he decides to tell you.” Griffon explains. _And the rest might as well give you all flashbacks_. Griffon adds in her mind.

 

“Hopefully you guys can make up and get on better terms. He’s been through some trying times, and enemies are not what he needs right now.”

 

“Whatever his reason is, I will not trust him with Gavin until I hear him apologize to his face and he _shows_ he didn’t mean it. Out of it, or not, he’s got no excuse for doing that, and I’m not just about to be buddy-buddy with him. I still want to give him a bloody round.” Dan says and it’s clear he’s not letting anything sway him.

 

“I understand what could’ve caused Michael to do that yesterday, and I do feel sorry, but…” Meg looks at Gavin before she continues. He’s looking at her with those blue eyes, the pout, and the look that makes him look so… vulnerable whether he knew he was doing it or not. “I still don’t trust him around Gavin. I won’t hate him, and he’s not going to be an enemy, but he’s got a long way to prove until I can trust him into our friend group.”

 

Gavin sighs. _They’re right. Bloody hell, they have a point. But why can’t I bring myself to hate him? There’s got to be more to it, right? Michael was crying on his front porch. He had such a nice voice._ Something in those brown eyes. He could see the sincerity of the unspoken apology, even now. Maybe Gavin was being in denial, but it didn’t feel right to leave it at that—at hating him. He doesn’t necessarily like him, but that doesn’t feel right either. Not after that first night he saw him. _But maybe I_ should _just leave it at that_ — _at hating him._ But he can’t.

 

Somewhere in his head he keeps blaming himself. He wants to apologize. If he had the ability to tell him, or gone a different way home, or he just wasn’t damn mute, this wouldn’t have happened. They might’ve even met a different way, been friends. It’s stupid that he blames himself, he knows. But he just does and maybe if he can properly apologize will he actually begin to resent the golden curls. Or maybe he’ll not.

 

Something suddenly occurs to him, as he looks back at the events of the day before. He reaches for his backpack, but when he searches it, it isn’t there.

 

_“Where’s my notebook?”_

 

* * *

 

_Michael +Three weeks • six days • four hours_

 

_Gavin +Five years • six months • three weeks • one day • twelve hours_

 

Michael was expecting to have a nice day off with his mother and go around the lake and maybe even go kayaking.

 

What he doesn’t expect is seeing the one and only Gavin Free next to a keyboard and having a picnic, while he’s holding said name’s notebook—that he should probably return—in a backpack.

 

(Don’t ask him _why_ he brought it with him. He looked at it once before he left it was in his backpack before he could think twice about it. He could sum it up to wanting to look through it again, or a feeling that something would happen. _And something_ is _happening._ )

 

Of course, Dan was also there, the one who was giving him the death stare the yesterday, and of course, Griffon was there with two others, and _of course,_ she had to wave him and his mom over not even twenty minutes into their lovely walk around the park.

 

But _Dan’s_ there and Michael doesn’t want to get into a fight before he can even apologize. (In every outcome Michael thought of, Dan always ended up landing a punch on his face.) Michael’s mind races, going through all of his options as he grips his backpack tighter. He looks over towards Griffon and sees everyone turn their heads in their direction. Gavin’s too busy  fussing over his keyboard to notice, but everyone else more or less glances up to see him and his mother. He makes eye contact with Dan. Michael sees the recognition followed by the anger, and he knows that he is right about Dan punching him if he walks up there.

 

“Michael, come on,” Michael’s mother urges once she notices how rigidly he’s standing. “Griffon’s over there, and I want you to meet her and the Ramsey’s!”

 

“I-uh-I need to use the bathroom first,” Michael says lamely.

 

“Michael, don’t be rude. You ca—Michael!”

 

He hurries off towards where he vaguely remembers where the bathrooms are. Once he’s far enough away and he realizes he actually doesn’t know where the hell the bathrooms are, he resigns to hiding behind a tree. Michael’s mom didn’t follow him, instead opting to talk to Griffon and apologizing for his behavior. He can see Gavin get up to greet his mother. Dan managed to be civil despite Michael still being able to see the underlying rage. Everyone one of them is talking and simultaneously making hand movements that Michael could only recognize as sign language.

Michael's mom looks surprised and amazed, and Michael admits that he is, too. It’s the first time Michael’s really seen it in use outside of television and movies.

 

Michael looks away for a moment to get his bearings, hoping people aren’t staring at him weirdly. They aren’t. One of the best things about this city is that there are a lot of peculiar people, so they’re already desensitized to the strange happenings that go about them. He leans back against the tree and closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. His heart was racing from the panic and he hadn’t even realized it.

 

Once his heart is steady, he opens his eyes again. He looks back towards Griffon and sees that she’s gone. Gavin is alone, left to fiddle with his keyboard. _Why’d he have a keyboard anyway? And his mom, where was she?_ Michael panics briefly, but then he sees her with Griffon walking the trail of the park. They must’ve decided to talk without the others. _Oh, God, what if it’s about him and what he did yesterday?_

 

He dismisses the thought. He’s been thinking too much. _And yesterday, too little._ He decides now would be the best time to give him the notebook and to apologize because at least Dan’s not there. He turns around and immediately does a double take. His heart rate soars higher again because someone is suddenly sitting in the bench in front of him reading a newspaper and he looks eerily similar to…

 

“F-Frank?” He says quietly to himself.  Michael slowly walks in front of the man to face him.

 

The man looks up, but no, that’s not Frank’s hooked nose, or his dull grey eyes, or his five o’ clock shadow. Not him. A stranger. “What’s up, kid?”

 

“Nothing, sorry. I just that you were someone else.” Michael stammers out.

 

“Guess I’m not,” the stranger smiles. “Have a nice day, bud.”

 

Michael starts to walk back towards Gavin without replying. He shivers. People in Austin—in Texas for the matter—were too nice. In Jersey, he might’ve gotten yelled at even if that _wasn’t_ Frank. And he had to stop thinking about Frank, Frank, Frank.

 

_It’s just a park. It’s just a park. He’s not here. Frank’s in prison. He’s in prison._

 

* * *

When Michael walks back, he doesn’t realize the panicked aura that surrounds him.

 

Too lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize that there’s a teenager, around his age, wearing glasses and bushy eyebrows, and of Puerto Rican descent, that stops as soon as he sees Michael.

 

Too lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize that the teen with the black glasses and the bushy eyebrows calls out to him in an all-too familiar voice.

 

Michael does realize he’s bumped into somebody, but he mumbles his apologies without turning to look at him directly.

 

The Puerto Rican teenager frowns as he turns and watches the curly-haired teen walk away.

 

He’s left to wonder if that was really him or not.

 

* * *

 

 

Gavin’s stomach grumbles as he lays back on the picnic blanket Meg laid out for them. It had taken him at least half an hour, but he finally fixed whatever audio problem his keyboard was having and he could finally play. His fingers were itching to get his hands on the keys, but he thinks he could take a small break before he would do so.

 

He closes his eyes and lets himself rest while the others are getting food. After he woke up to the cold tea, he never really got himself back to sleep. Griffon was out for a walk with a woman named Susan Jones, their neighbor. She was quite fun, in all honesty. She seemed like a nice lady. She was amused by how everyone was using sign language, and Gavin almost forgot that most people don’t actually use it everyday. But when Gavin actually looked at her, he saw the same brown eyes, and he realized it must be _that_ neighbor. Before he could even ask, Griffon was already whisking her away, and the others decided to leave him and grab some ice cream and snacks.

 

As he’s thinking about those brown eyes, he thinks about what happened again and what Griffon has told them. He tries one more time to decipher the teen.

 

“Uh, hey.”

 

Gavin opens his eyes and doesn’t expect to be greeted by brown eyes himself, but there he was standing clearly in front of him. He stands up, suddenly self conscious of his position.

 

“Gavin Free, right?”

 

All Gavin can do is nod. No other articulate response can process through Gavin’s brain because—wow. When he’s not yelling at you and pushing you against the fence, Michael Jones is actually really attractive. It’s the first time Gavin got to really _look_ at him. Gavin watched him dumbly, as Michael fidgeted on foot onto the other. It was cute. Besides his light brown eyes, Gavin notices the multitude of freckles covering his face, the hair that’s short but curled and the sun reflects on them making them gold, and his small lips that were trying to decide whether or not to smile or frown. _Gavin wants to count the freckles, run a hand through his incredibly hair, and k-_ Gavin stops his thoughts there.

 

 _What am I doing?_ He asks himself, but he can’t stop staring, and it’s really stupid because _he literally jumped you yesterday, Gavin, get a hold of yourself you pleb._

 

But he notices glasses rest on his nose when he sees Michael reach to push them up. A light blush sweeps across his freckled face. Gavin realizes he must’ve been red, too. And then he finally registers that he’s smiling at Michael.

 

And at this point, it’s been a minute, and they’re both just staring.

 

Then Gavin’s eyes travel down until he notices the notebook in Michael’s hand.  

 

_Isn’t that-?_

 

* * *

 

The first thing Michael notices is his big noise. Then he notices his eyes. Wow, he has really green eyes. Or were they blue? He can’t really tell, but they were also… he didn’t know how to put it. Melancholic? But at the same time it gave Michael a sense of light joy. He was only an inch or two taller than Michael, but his hair added another. His shorts were also ridiculous shade of pink. His face was flushed, and his lips were upturned into a small smile. He has a really nice smile. His hair is all over the place. It’s floppy and sticks up at random points, but somehow he doesn’t look crazy. It really suits him and Michael _wants to run a hand through it to mess it up more, but- What the fuck are you thinking, Michael_ ? He says to himself. _You’re here to apologize, not to check him out. Am I checking him out? Is he checking_ me _out?_

 

_What am I doing?_

 

He remembers yesterday and guilt starts to seep back into him.

 

And at this point, it’s been a minute, and they’re both just staring.

 

Michael sees Gavin focus on the notebook gripped tightly in his hands. He finally starts to speak again.

 

“I found this on the ground yesterday.” He waves it around a little, but Gavin’s already reached for it and takes it from him mid-sentence. He offers a pencil and Gavin takes it with a smile. “I didn’t look through all of it. Just a few pages.”

 

Gavin’s flipping through the pages, looking for a blank one. He starts scribbling and Michael continues to speak, trying to find the right words.

 

“I’m sorry,” he resigns to say. Gavin looks back up at him and pauses his writing. Michael sees what he wrote.

 

_“It’s okay.”_

 

“No, it’s not. I-I’m just really sorry about yesterday. I didn’t know what I was doing. It was really stupid, and dumb, and you probably hate me for it, and I can’t apologize enough. I’m sorry.”

 

Michael averts his eyes, but Gavin taps him, and he holds up the notebook.

 

_“You don’t have to be sorry. I forgive you.”_

 

What strikes Michael the most is the line underneath that one.

 

_“I don’t hate you.”_

 

Michael looks at him, confused. _What? How could-_ “You forgive me? How could you-? You don’t-? You don’t hate me? Why?” _I’ve given you every reason to. You should be angry at me._

 

Gavin looks like he’s writing a storm. Michael grows anxious as he’s waiting, but he does so patiently. _Why doesn’t he hate me?_

 

 _“I don’t necessarily like you, but I don’t hate you.”_ As Gavin writes this, he says to himself, _well that’s a blatant lie._

 

_“But I can understand why you did it because I’ve seen those eyes before.They’re the same as mine. I won’t hold it against you. And I wanted to say I’m sorry, too. It’s as much of my fault as it is yours.”_

 

Michael grows even more confused. “What do my eyes have to do with anything? Have you seen my eyes? They’re brown. Yours are like—some weird mix between green and blue, _nothing_ like mine.  And how would you know why I did it? I’ve done everything wrong, and you don’t even _know_ me.”

 

He doesn’t mean it as harsh and as protective as he does, but it comes out that way. _Damn it,_ he thinks when he sees Gavin flinch at the sharpness of his tone.

 

He says, a little quieter this time, “And how could it be your fault? Don’t be sorry for my mistakes. You did nothing wrong.”

 

The softness in his tone reminds Gavin of that night he saw Michael crying. But he sounds so defeated, and Gavin just wants to reassure him of everything because Michael’s oh so wrong. It wasn’t just his mistakes. Gavin’s writing fiercely again.

 

“What are you doing here?” A distinct British voice yells. Michael looks away from Gavin to see an infuriated Dan five feet away, carrying several plastic bags that he’s just about ready to throw at Michael.

 

“Look, I better go. I don’t want to cause any-” Michael starts to say, but just as he does, Gavin drops his pencil in the middle of his writing.

 

Michael picks it up instinctively, bending down to grab it. He sees Gavin shuffle in front of him, but before he can even return the pencil, he’s sent tumbling backwards.

 

“Dan!” he hears a female voice shout.

 

He’s on his back, his glasses crooked, his head in a daze. He opens his eyes and sees Dan. He pulls Michael up by the collar.

 

“Wha-”

  
And before Michael can even finish his sentence—before he can even blink—Dan’s fist collides with his jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely sure when I'll next update since school is going back in session for me this Monday, but I have planned out the next five or so chapters. Hopefully I find the time to write them! And next chapter there will be a more formal intro for Ray :) 
> 
> The song Michael sings is Everything's Alright by Laura Shigihara which you may recognize from the video game To the Moon!


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